


The End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

by acareeroutofrobbingbanks



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: First "I love you", Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scotland, jon is a monster but martin loves his monster bf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22192363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acareeroutofrobbingbanks/pseuds/acareeroutofrobbingbanks
Summary: Jon and Martin run away to Scotland, don't end the world, and do deal with their feelings for each other.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 28
Kudos: 392





	The End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Just a few warnings - first, I've only listened to TMA all the way through once, and there may be some continuity errors. Second, I'm American. I did my best with Britishisms, but I'm sure I've messed up. Other than that, enjoy yet another fix it.

The two of them stopped for petrol just before the Scottish border. It was a big sort of station, the kind with a dozen restaurants and that sold soothing Celtic music CDs and had a little play area for kids. 

Jon was surprised to see how many little kids were on the playset. They ran and screamed and slapped each other - tag, he realized belatedly. They were playing tag.

Jon had been locked in the archives so long that he had had no idea what time it was when he went into the Lonely, and even less clue when he got out. Apparently, it was daytime. Ten in the morning, prime time for people to be out and about, living their lives with no idea the horrors that Jon had seen.

"You should get something to eat," Martin said, and Jon jumped. Martin held up his hands but Jon was already shaking his head, apologizing.

"Sorry, sorry, I just-"

"I know, I didn't mean to scare-"

"I'm _fine_."

Martin giggled, the tension gone. They were both so far from fine that it was laughably absurd. It shouldn’t have been funny, certainly shouldn’t have been a good thing, but Jon bit his lip to hold back laughter as well.

“Yes, well,” he said. “In _any_ case. Are you hungry?”

“I’ll eat if you do,” Martin told him, and Jon didn’t roll his eyes if only because that seemed like a reasonable compromise. He would be damned if he let Martin starve after everything they’d gone through over the last few days and, well. If it meant choking down a sack of chips, he could probably handle that. Jon didn’t feel hungry, nor did he think he ever truly would again, but even so.

Jon bought them greasy fast food and enough caffeinated soda to keep them awake for the entirety of the drive. Martin went to the bathroom and met up with Jon again holding a little plastic bag that he claimed contained more food. Then the both of them paused and watched the kids playing.

“I never really liked kids,” Jon said, which wasn’t really what he meant to say.

“I’ll bet,” Martin said, then snorted. “I bet you didn’t like kids when you were a kid. Too childish for you?”

Jon didn’t smile, just seemed to sink deeper into himself.

“Something like that,” he agreed.

Martin either didn’t notice or was tactful enough not to point it out. He shook the paper sack that smelt of salt and oil under Jon’s nose, and Jon took one ginger bite of a chip. It didn’t really taste like anything but hot. The warmth felt good in his stomach, though, like a vague mockery of drinking tea. Better than nothing, at any rate.

“What I meant,” Jon tried again. “What I meant was that they’re.” The words stuck in his throat. “They’re sweet.”

What he really meant was that he didn’t want any of these innocents to get devoured by a fear god, but he couldn’t quite say that. After a moment, Martin touched his elbow.

“We should get going?”

He said it like that, like a question. He was still shaken and gray, trembling when he thought Jon wasn’t looking, not that Jon had to look with his eyes to know. He would have known even without the Eye, because Martin was human and Jon had felt what it was like in the Lonely. It was a lot, too much, and they needed time to recover. But with Elias surely trailing them, and the hunters, and God knew what other monsters, time was not on their side.

“Right,” Jon said. 

He ended up falling asleep in the car, because Martin had purchased the Celtic relaxation music and insisted that it was driver’s choice.

* * *

They were far, far north, further north than Jon had really bothered going in his life. They drove up past Inverness, Martin squinting at the handwritten directions as they passed the turnoff. Just before they got to the portion of instructions that dealt entirely with country roads, they stopped at SPAR.

Jon realized he had no idea what Martin liked in terms of food. Martin brought him tea often enough, but the institute provided that. Jon picked up a few boxes, just in case. English breakfast and oolong, green tea with peppermint and earl gray. He grabbed regular Hobnobs and some chocolate covered ones, because he would have bet his life that Martin had a sweet tooth. There wasn’t much available by way of health food, but he bought bread and cheese and jam, some cans of soup, bottled water, and sickly looking fruit wrapped in plastic. The deli counter he ignored entirely. No meat.

“Nothing says classy like grocery shopping at SPAR,” Martin said with a laugh. Jon almost felt embarrassed before remembering that Martin was, in fact, the one that pulled over and suggest they get food. He almost puffed himself up to tell Martin that before he realized he was joking. Kidding around. 

It all felt so foreign.

“Like being in uni, isn’t it?” he asked drily, and Martin laughed again.

“You know I wouldn’t know,” he said.

“Well, that’s what it’s like,” Jon said. “Like making sandwiches out of bread and crisps and feeling yourself begin to sweat grease.”

“You’re really making me miss the experience.”

“It wasn’t all that amazing,” Jon said. Not that any part of his life, come to think of it, sounded that amazing. If he had to pick a time, he might have chosen living with Georgie and the Admiral, working in the Institute but not in the Archives. But now all the memories of that were tainted with the way Georgie had last looked at him. When, Jon wondered, had he last been happy?

“I can introduce you to some of my other culinary adventures,” Jon said, desperate to tease, to make Martin smile. “A pot of tea and a whole sleeve of biscuits with some peanut butter on them. Cup Noodle.”

“Love a good Cup Noodle,” Martin says. Then, he peered into Jon’s bag of groceries and makes an appraising sort of face. “I can actually make pretty decent ramen, you know. Real ramen, with, ah, vegetables and whatnot.”

“Oh,” said Jon. _Martin cooks_ , he thought to himself, a little fact about him he’d never known before. “That would be- do I need to get anything else?”

“We can work with what we have,” Martin said. “This is enough to make it work.”

It didn’t really sound like he was talking about ramen, and Jon hoped he wasn’t. He hoped Martin could make it work, because he had no idea how to. No idea how to make anything work.

“Right,” said Jon. 

* * *

It was raining by the time they get to the safehouse, because when is it not raining in Scotland? The house in question was a cottage, if the descriptor is feeling kind, and a shack if they were not. It’s roof was sagging and it was entirely blanketed in ivy, like a mossy rock just barely jutting out of the ground.

Still, Jon bracingly thought this is for the best. If it’s inconspicuous, if it’s camouflage, maybe even an all seeing eye won’t spot them there.

“Looks good,” he said aloud, and Martin gave him a teasing little grin, one that strikes Jon as playful, even in the midst of all this.

“Looks wet,” he said, but he smiled still. “C’mon. I’ll help carry in the rations, and you can start a fire.”

Jon wasn’t sure if Martin was joking, but then he walked inside and realized that it was nearly as damp _in_ the house as on and around it, and oh, he really will need to light a fire.

“We might have been as well off camping,” he said, and Martin bumped him, arms loaded with groceries.

“Where’s your spirit of adventure?” he asked, and then Jon turned, and suddenly they’re face to face. Martin’s quite tall, really, and their noses almost brush, caught in the small little liminal space of the doorway. Jon’s breath caught in his throat and even in the gloom he could see every freckle on Martin’s nose and he thinks oh. Oh, there’s _this_. They’re close enough to kiss.

“Oh,” said Martin.

It hit him then he and Martin had yet to talk about their relationship. Jon thought he had made his feelings very apparent, but now… he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know how else to tell Martin what he felt, and he didn’t know where to start, mainly because he and Martin hadn’t ever talked about anything. Back before everything was about the Lonely and the Stranger and the End of the World, Jon had talked to Tim, a very little, and Tim had talked to Martin. Jon had spied on Martin. They’d talked a bit after Jon got kidnapped, but it had all been work stuff, even if “work stuff” was a bit more intense than your average office job. He knew he loved Martin, even if he had never said it in so many words. 

He didn’t particularly want to say it in so many words.

What he wanted to do was bridge the minute gap between the two of them and press his lips to Martin’s.

Instead, Jon cleared his throat. 

“Yes, ah,” he said, and coughed. “I’ll go get that fire started, then?” He was aware that his voice was higher than usual, and Martin seemed to notice too. His eyes widened like he’s going to giggle, but then he smoothed his features out.

“Yes, well, be sure to try and hack down some of this jungle while you’re at it.”

Jon spun around so fast that his shoulder clips up against Martin’s. _Thankyouthatwillbeall_. And he did have to pull down some cobwebs and uproot some moss on his way into the second of four rooms in the little house. The largest room had a fire place in the back, with an only slightly damp wood pile next to it. 

Jon built the fire, crumpling up an old receipt he found in his jacket pocket to use as kindling. He didn’t really expect the soggy logs to catch, but eventually, and with no small degree of smoke, they did. He felt very proud of himself until the room filled with smoke and he had to frantically push open the windows. Martin walked in, coughing.

“You’re - Jon, the flue!”

Jon gave Martin a helpless look and Martin ran over to the fireplace, stuck his hand up inside the chimney, and pulled a face. He looked strained for a moment, then there was a rusty sort of whine, and he pulled his arm back, exhaustion clear on his face. Smoke began to rise up the chimney properly again while Jon tried to chase the last of it out the window.

After everything, he still wasn’t used to feeling incompetent around Martin, so he puffed himself up just slightly when he huffed and asked “Well, what did I do?”

“You didn’t open the flue, Jon,” Martin said, sounding fond like the absolute bastard he was. (Jon prayed he wasn’t turning pink, wasn’t blushing in front of Martin, not now.) “It’s a bit important to get the smoke up the chimney.”

“I’m aware, Martin,” Jon said, a bit too sharply. Damn, but there’s no winning, was there? He’s either too vulnerable or too cold and if there’s a happy medium where he can just talk like a person without feeling like his handed Martin his intestines on a platter, that would be ideal. 

Then they’re standing too close once again. Standing close is good, Jon thinks, right? They can’t be Lonely if they’re right next to each other.

Martin cleared his throat.

“I’ll, ah,” he said. “I’ll put on the kettle?”

Jon couldn’t find it in himself to tell him thank you or to say how nice it would be or even to just admit how badly he wanted a cup of coffee. He just nodded mutely, and then Martin was gone, leaving Jon to fan the fire. 

In some ways, Daisy’s survivalist cabin was good, because it gave Jon an excuse to keep busy. He had to set up the bed (naturally there was only one, but Jon was not so obscurely grateful that they would have no excuse not to sleep next to one another at night, in the dark). The sheets on it were so musty they looked as though they might crumble at any moment, but Jon was lucky to find some more, slightly cleaner smelling alternatives in the cupboard. He changed the sheets, then swept out all four rooms: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen/entryway and main room. He found a similarly dusty fusebox and managed to get some of the lights working, though it was still freezing everywhere not in direct line of sight of the fire he’d gotten blazing. He cleared some of the dead bugs away (not Corruption, he told himself, just run of the mill _bugs_ ) and when he was done with all of that, Martin was cooking dinner. And apparently, Martin was correct. He could cook a pretty good meal with few ingredients, or at least, it smelled like he could. 

Jon hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until he was standing over the pot, his mouth actively watering as he smelled it. He was chased backwards by a still dripping spoon and greeted by the sight of Martin’s fond smile.

“None of that,” Martin said. “It isn’t done yet.”

“I didn’t know I still wanted to eat,” Jon admitted. “Real food, that is.”

At that, Martin lit up. Jon thought he had seen Martin smile before, but suddenly his grin was producing a thousand or so watts of pure sunshine.

“Jon, that’s- that’s great! That’s fantastic! I’ll- I can try to hurry this along-”

“Martin-!” Jon was embarrassed, suddenly, but he was too in love with the way Martin was smiling at him to backtrack entirely. “I- no, you’re fine-”

“But that’s a good sign, right?” Martin asked. “I mean, if you’re getting hungry for human food maybe you’re becoming-”

“Human?” Jon asked wearily. 

“More human,” Martin said emphatically. “More human than you were.”

“It might not mean anything other than that you’re a decent cook,” Jon said, but Martin’s good mood was undaunted. 

“We’ll see,” he said, then he leaned over and kissed Jon on the cheek.

And oh.

Oh.

Oh.

Jon’s cheek burnt like he’d been branded and the heat flooded down from his face all through his limbs. _Oh_ , Martin had kissed him. He didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, the bastard, he just turned back to the pot, humming as he did. Jon wanted to say _should we talk about this_ or _hey that was nice_ or even _martin you just kissed me oh my god_ , but all he could do was make a sort of “Hmph!” noise in the back of his throat, and Martin’s smile down at the food got wider.

What an ass. Jon couldn’t believe he was in love with him.

* * *

It was slightly easier to believe later, as he inhaled the noodle soup Martin had made for the both of them. It was spicy and still hot, scorching his throat as he swallowed, but Jon realized somewhere along the way that he was famished. He hardly even looked up as he ate, the steam fogging up his glasses while he ate.

“You were hungry,” Martin said, looking astonished. “You hardly touched anything back in-”

“I wasn’t so hungry then,” Jon said. He looked up and realized there was a drop of broth trailing from the corner of his mouth. He swiped the sleeve of his shirt across his face, then decided it was probably good enough. He did wish that Martin would stop looking at him so damned _fondly_ , like Jon had done something endearing rather than something mildly disgusting. 

It was funny, thinking back. Jon had spent so long abhorring Martin’s company, but now he couldn’t believe that Martin was really, truly, in love with him. It was hard to even think the words, the way his mind stuttered around _love_. But he did, didn’t he? He’d heard Martin in the Lonely, on the tape from Jon’s office. He had known that Martin loved him. But for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why.

And surely, some dark, curdled corner of his mind added, if Martin did love him, he loved the human Jon had been, not the monster he was.

But then, perhaps that was the key. Maybe that was why Martin still looked at Jon with a mixture of devotion and trepidation, like a cute but feral animal. If he was eating human food, then he was a little more human. The noodles suddenly felt alive and writhing in Jon’s stomach. He was, he realized, much more valid and much more wanted as a human.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Martin told him, still smiling. Jon hadn’t even realized he’d stopped scarfing down the meal until he spoke. “Please.”

Jon managed a weak smile back at him before taking another bite. The noodles were excellent, but he didn’t feel so hungry anymore. 

* * *

Not nearly hungry enough for the second bowl he had later, or the plate full of chocolate covered Hobnobs and milky tea he had that night, he and Martin curled in on themselves side by side in front of the fire.

Jon hadn’t slept in so long, and all the caffeinated tea in the world couldn’t keep him up against the soporific crackle of the fire and warm food in his stomach, the warm presence of Martin sitting by his side. He started to nod off, his head drooping down over and over again, though he tried to stay awake. He wasn’t sure what for, other than that he didn’t want to see whatever he was certain see as soon as he closed his eyes. 

Something heavy landed on Jon’s shoulder, then. He started, his heart already racing, his eyes already scanning the room for a weapon. _Wood axe, fire poker, tea kettle_. But then, he realized that what landed on his shoulder was snoring softly against his neck, and he turned to see Martin, apparently out cold as he lay against Jon. 

And oh, but Martin looked so soft in his sleep. Untroubled, his expression calmer and easier than Jon had seen it in- God, but he didn’t know when. The Archive weighed so heavily on all of them, and then Martin was so distant, shrouded in fog while he was under the influence of the Lonely. But no he was _here_ , he looked peaceful and pale and simply like any other untroubled human asleep. 

“Martin,” Jon whispered, to no response. He let out one soft laugh, barely an exhalation, and said again, “ _Martin_.”

No response, but Jon could still feel Martin’s warm breath in his collarbone, could still see the rise and fall of his shoulders. He was fine, yes, Jon was sure about that. 

“C’mon,” Jon whispered, and he slowly stood up, heaving Martin to his feet as well. Martin grumbled, his eyelids fluttering, and it felt as though Jon had been struck in the chest once again. He was beautiful, Jon realized idly, though it was no great revelation. It hit him like suddenly acknowledging a fact. The sky is blue, the sun rises in the East, Martin is beautiful. 

Jon wrapped his arm around Martin’s chest and draped Martin’s arm over his shoulders, then sleep-walked him into the bedroom, laying him down on the bed and tucking the sheets in around him. Jon then climbed into the other side and, since Martin was already asleep and wouldn’t remember this, he pressed himself tightly against Martin’s back.

There, lying in the dark with the fire dying in the next room, Martin continuing to snore just slightly, not loud enough to be a disturbance but still audible, Jon bend his face to Martin’s shoulder and sighed.

“I love you too,” he said. It came out stiffly, even in a whisper in the dark, almost a question. But he was certain once he said it that it was true.

* * *

The next day, they washed all the dishes till they were immaculate. Then they did a second sweep of the floors, and they went out back to chop more wood. There were two felled trees behind the house, and as Martin looked at the axe as though it were going to rise up and hit him on its own accord. Jon did most of the chopping while Martin talked to him, his voice raised over the whistle of the axe and the thunk of dead wood splitting.

“...and then they added up the numbers, and I actually got the most,” he said with a hint of pride in his voice. “Tim was furious with me for weeks. But apparently I’m a lot of guys’ type.”

“February, you say?” Jon asked mildly. He couldn’t really find it in himself to feel jealous over a flirting competition years ago, though he wondered if perhaps he should. That seemed the sort of thing boyfriends were jealous over, though yet again, he couldn’t say for certain if that was what they were. “That would explain why Tim was so… uncharitable towards you for a while.”

“Was he really?” Martin looked delighted from his perch up in the branches of one of the dead trees, his legs swinging in the open air beneath him. “He deserved it. He took home the man I was talking to just the night before, so.”

“How often did you two go out?” Jon asked, and regretted it instantly as Martin’s smile fell.

“Couple times a week, back when you both started in the archive,” he said. “But, you know. Less and less, as time went on.”

Jon did know. It was dangerous territory, really, bringing up Tim. Or Sasha, or Basira, or Daisy, or anyone but the two of them.

But Jon could fix it. He had to be able to fix some of the messes he made.

“Bastard must have been an alcoholic, back then,” Jon sniffed. “We went out once a week as well.”

“And never thought to invite me?” 

Jon glanced at Martin, but Knew that he wasn’t hurt. Or, if he was, it was well-concealed. He found Jon’s old disdain funny, which was something of a relief.

“The option never came up,” Jon said, and Martin laughed, throwing his whole head back as Jon got back to chopping. 

* * *

By the end of two full days there, they had enough wood to burn down several houses, a castle moreso than a house of cards laid out carefully in the living room, and hardly any food left. Jon was eating far more than he was hungry for, and as he inspected the last slice of bread, he felt a small amount of relief that they would begin to ration and he wouldn’t have to keep up the pretense of being constantly hungry anymore. 

“Don’t be silly,” Martin told him when he said they ought to cut back. “We’ll just go into town.”

“Both of us?” Jon asked, nerves turning his stomach. He was hungry all the time by then, but no matter how much food he had, it did not satiate him. He knew what he needed, but he was loathe to say it. 

“Probably not the best idea to split up, just yet,” Martin said. “I mean, if you’d prefer the space-”

“No, not at all,” Jon said quickly. “Let’s just- town. Right.”

“Town” was a half hour’s drive away, and it only barely fit the definition, so far as Jon could tell. There was a single church, a few houses, a post office, one farm supply store, a SPAR, and a local grocer, which was closed. SPAR it was, again, but Martin looked undaunted by the prospect.

“You can make a lot of good meals with simple ingredients,” he said, and Jon shook his head.

“You would’ve thrived at uni,” he said. 

Along with food, they bought another few packs of cards to add to the enormous castle, and some magazines. Trite nonsense, celebrity gossip, juicing diets, Jon hardly cared, he just wanted to read something. It wouldn’t take away the gnawing hunger, but perhaps it would soothe, like a placebo. If nothing else, he always liked to read, and they had yet to find so much as a Bible in Daisy’s safehouse. They checked out with the supply of cash they’d taken out back in London, then Jon rather impolitely asked when the grocer would be open. 

“Wednesdays and Fridays only,” the clerk said, popping gum. It was mostly unhelpful because Jon hadn’t the faintest idea what day of the week it was.

They called Basira from the payphone next to the post office, a miraculously still working relic. Jon was grateful, as he hardly wanted his cell phone traced, but something about being locked in the tiny glass box was more than a little unnerving to him. He didn’t like the door, which had flakes of yellow spray paint on it, or the closed-in-ness of it all, or the (surely broken) security camera in the topmost corner, winking in little flashes of sunlight. He didn’t trust it the way he trusted the camera. Perhaps Martin sensed that Jon was uneasy, because he called her, in the end. 

“No sign of Daisy,” Martin announced. “But she’ll send some statements up here. If you still… need them?” He looked so hopeful that Jon felt ill at the thought of telling him the truth, but his hole body felt like there was something starving inside it, scrabbling at the walls of his chest and stomach.

“I think it would be for the best,” he said lightly, and looked away before he could see Martin’s face. 

“She’s sending some up to the post office here,” Martin said. “We could get a box, if you like.”

“Probably for the best,” Jon said again. “Doubt they’ll hold a package for no one they’ve ever heard of.”

“Can’t use real names though, can we?” Martin asked.

And, well. Jon couldn’t resist. 

“Call her back,” he said. “Tell her to ship it to Gerard and Michael Delano.”

Jon went into the post office alone, feeling a tiny hint of something - not quite fear, more akin to stage fright. He was not going to drag a statement out of a poor postman. He was not, even if he could feel the gnashing, moaning hunger deep inside of him. 

Instead, he just set up a PO box for the two of them. He was asked for ID, but Jon, with only the slightest bit of famishing effort, was able to convince them they already knew Gerard and Michael Delano. Jon felt the faintest twinge at stealing Gerard’s identity, but figured after all the trouble burning his page had caused him, it was the least Gerard could do for Jon, now he was properly dead.

Then they were back at the safehouse, and true to the etymology, he felt safe there. At the very least, he didn’t feel like cold sweat was dripping down his brow, threatening to reveal him as a monster and a murderer at any moment.

Martin didn’t think he was a monster, Jon thought, but it did little to cheer him. Martin thought he was becoming human, and Jon knew that a bowl full of noodles did not a human being make. 

* * *

“Okay,” said Martin suddenly, startling Jon so badly that he knocked over a whole wing of their card-castle. “You’ve got to tell me the truth, because it’s driving me mad.”

Jon felt his stomach sink down somewhere below the half-rotted floorboards of the safehouse.

“Martin-” he began. _Don’t stop him_ , he pleaded with himself. Martin should leave. He would almost certainly be safer if he left. Jon had heard of few good outcomes for humans that were too friendly with avatars. 

“We’ve been here a week now and I’ve made your tea differently every single time,” Martin said. “Just waiting for you to complain, and you’re clearly on eggshells, but just tell me what you like. Do you drink it black? Leave the bag in? Or what?”

_Tea_. Of course Martin was just asking about tea.

“I-” Jon cut himself off, and laughed weakly. Just tea. That was all. “It never leaves this room, yeah?”

Martin scoffed, but it was nice, playacting like this was a real secret that mattered in any way.

“Choked with milk and sugar,” Jon told him. “It has to taste like a dessert for me.”

A grin spread across Martin’s face.

“Knew it,” he said. “Knew you were just a big softy.”

“It makes the Hobnobs taste better too,” Jon added. 

“Naturally,” said Martin. He looked almost obscenely pleased. Like tea with milk was even more proof that Jon was a human being. 

Martin handed Jon a cup of tea that was so pale it was nearly white with milk, and somehow smelled sweet. It was perfectly warm and not overly hot, and Jon drank from it deeply.

“More like yourself every day,” Martin said, and Jon drank the rest quickly, unhappy and so, so hungry.

* * *

Martin knew something was wrong by the time the statements arrived, but he could hardly ask Basira to hurry it along, not while the Institute was under such heavy police scrutiny. He had taken to doing most of the shopping, just to be sure that Jon didn’t snap and consume the statement of some unsuspecting sheep farmer. Martin did wonder, vaguely, that if animals had fears, could Jon take their statements? If a cow were thinking about how afraid it was, could Jon temporarily speak cow?

He didn’t bring it up to Jon. He assumed he’d be laughed at mercilessly.

But the point was that he knew Jon was hungry. Starving, maybe. No matter how many helpings of dinner Martin pushed on him, he continued to seem stretched and wan, his skull prominent beneath stretched out skin on his face. Ironically, the further he got from feeding on statements, the more, well. The more monstrous he seemed to look. 

So Martin was really, really grateful when he was finally able to go into the post office, give his name as Michael Delano, and pick up a huge envelope that contained the statements from Basira.

(Martin also didn’t know entirely what to make of the fact that Jon had them posing as a married couple. He was flattered, yes, but he didn’t want to read too far into it. Clearly Jon didn’t despise him, like he had before, but even Georgie hinted that Jon might not feel- well, Martin didn’t know if they were anything other than friends. And, alright, friends who spooned, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up.)

And Jon wanted to be alone while he read the statements, which was fine. And Martin said he wasn’t interested in a monologue and he would go off to look at cows, which was usually quite fun, but being away from Jon made him anxious. He walked a few paces from the doorway, and came back to listen to the soothing sound of Jon’s voice, eager to “come back” as soon as possible and see his Jon healthier, sleeping easier.

But, of course, it couldn’t be that simple. Something was wrong.

“Hello, Jon,” Jon said in a voice that wasn’t his own, like always, but one that sounded _familiar_ , one that raked up the back of Martin’s spine like little silvery worms.

Martin knew this voice.

“Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.”

He knows this voice he knows this voice he _knows this goddamn voice_.

“ _Do just about anything for him - your mother simply hates you - such loyalty to someone who -_ ”

“-you always did prefer to read your statements in p-p-private-”

_Jon_ sounded like a scratched and skipping record. _Elias_ sounded like a cat with a mouthful of canary feathers. Both voices came from Jon’s mouth, and as Martin ran back into the cabin, Jon looked up at him with too many terrified eyes. 

_Nonononononono-_

“I wouldn’t-” Jon gasped, tried to close his eyes, lurched into the table “-try too hard to stop reading-”

Martin’s lips formed Jon’s name, but no sound came out. He had to move, he had to do something, but all he was doing was standing there. The recorder clicked and whirred.

“-turn the page… and try again-” Jon was straining, but his hand lifted, turned the page. Martin swallowed back bile.

“Statement of Jonah Magnus, regarding Jonathan Sims, the Archivist-”

Warmth spread back into Martin’s limbs and something deep down inside him snapped like too taut string. _No_.

Martin threw himself into Jon and tackled him from the chair. He couldn’t reach the fucking recorder to turn it off, but he could shove his entire fist in Jon’s mouth and stop the words from coming out.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m really sorry about this, Jon,” Martin said, and, hand still over his mouth, he leaned forward and held Jon down with all his body weight. Recorder, recorder, would it help if he turned off the recorder? 

Over the sounds of each of them breathing, heavy and laboured, Martin heard the familiar click and whir of tape. He turned his head, saw it on the ground, and snarled.

“Statement ends!” he shouted, and crushed the recorder under his foot. Gingerly, he lifted one hand from Jon’s mouth, while still holding him down. Jon shook his head.

“I hope you’ll forgive me the indulgence-” he said before Martin covered his mouth again. His eyes were big but didn’t seem to see anything at all. Certainly not Martin before him. _Fuck_.

Martin took off his scarf, part of the going out charade, and bound it tight around Jon’s mouth. Then he hoisted Jon back up into the chair - “sorry sorry sorry” - and tied his hands behind his back with his coat.

The last time Martin had really pissed off Elias, he had burnt statements, right? Surely that would kill them, right?

Martin felt in Jon’s pockets - “sorry!” - for his lighter, and when he found it, familiar web design and all, he took the papers off the table and set them alight. Only then did Jon slump, shaking and ashen gray, in the chair, his head lolled back on his shoulders.

And oh, no no no, fuck the world, but Martin is going to keep Jon alive and okay.

“Jon!” he shouted, and unbound his mouth. Martin was all but in Jon’s lap, hands shaking as he held Jon’s face.

“Martin,” Jon said. And God, it was weak, but it was something. He was still there, still in there.

“Sorry!” Martin gasped. “I’m sorry, I heard- I mean, that was-”

“It was,” Jon said. “Martin, I think I- are there real statements in there?”

Martin got off him for a moment, and looked through the pile. All of them had different cover pages, but each second page started “Hello, Jon.” Martin burnt them all, and behind him, Jon let out a low, heavy moan. 

“I’m sorry!” Martin all but cried. Basira would be able to send more - she had to be able to send more, because for all Martin knew, Jon was dying. “I don’t - I’ll call Basira, and we’ll figure this out, and-”

“No,” Jon said. “No, I’ll… I’ll be fine.”

Martin could feel tears smarting at his eyes. He’d averted something horrible, but Jon was gray, the only thing standing out on his face were scars.

“Can I- can I tell you what I just saw?” Martin asked. 

“Martin-”

“Please?”

Jon swallowed. His eyes were still shut, his face drawn in misery, but Martin could already tell he was too weak to fight back.

“Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding the near-disaster befalling the Archivist.”

* * *

Jon fell asleep at noon, after Martin gave his statement. He slept dreamlessly for what felt like many hours, but when he awoke, it was still bright outside as though the midday sun were shining. 

“Martin?” he said, the word coming out gummy through dry lips. The bed next to him was empty, of course, because Martin wouldn’t want to have nightmares. But the cottage was small, and soon Martin was in the room. 

“Up so early, sleepyhead?” he asked. “It’s only been twenty-two hours.”

“I- what?” Jon asked.

“It’s nearly eleven in the morning,” Martin said. He sat down on the very foot of the bed, far away from Jon as possible. “You must have needed the rest.”

“Oh,” Jon said. His mouth still felt horribly tacky, and his muzzy head now made much more sense. “I haven’t been sleeping well, I suppose.”

“I know,” Martin said. “Listen, I- I didn’t want to leave you, so I haven’t been able to call Basira yet, and I’m not sure what to do about-”

“Don’t worry about me,” Jon said. “I’ll be-”

“Don’t you dare say you’ll be fine,” Martin said. “You will not be fine if you starve yourself to death.”

“What am I meant to do?” Jon asked. “I can hardly assault people in the street and God knows Elias will always Know where we are better than Basira, so-”

“I don’t know!” Martin said. “I don’t. But we’ll figure it out. You can’t just consign yourself to wasting away.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I were human,” Jon said. Then both of them were quiet. The rain in Scotland had become so common to Jon that the absence of it seemed even louder than the noise, and Jon felt buried by the pervasive silence.

“You should go,” Jon said, finally. He didn’t look at Martin - couldn’t look at him, didn’t try to See him at all. “I mean it. You’d be better off without me. I don’t know what you think will happen, but I’m not ever going to be human again.”

And Jon really didn’t intend to look at martin, but he also didn’t expect Martin to respond by scoffing at him.

“ _Really_?” 

Jon looked up, and saw that Martin looked amused, when nothing was funny at all.

“Yes, _really_ ,” Jon said, trying not to be as deeply annoyed as he was. “What exactly do you think will happen? I’ll enjoy some Cup Noodle so much that I stop being a monster?”

“Obviously not, Jon,” Martin said. “What are you on about? I don’t expect you to be anything other than what you are. I’d prefer if we refrain from feeding on unsuspecting bystanders, but-”

“I’ve been trying!”

“I know you have! Why do you think I need you to be human? You’re already _Jon_!”

To that, Jon had no response.

Martin scooted closer to him, the bed creaking and dipping as he did so.

“Jon,” he said. “I know what you are.”

“But you kept saying- like, with the food and everything-”

“I was just worried I was starving you,” Martin said with a mirthless laugh. “It was me being a hopeful idiot.”

“You see-”

“Hopeful that you wouldn’t die of hunger up here, not hopeful that you’d become something else.”

“But the soup! You said I was becoming more human and you _kissed me_ and then-”

“You were being _cute_ , you absolute idiot!”

Jon still felt weak and shaky, and not nearly brave enough to lean forward and press his lips softly to Martin’s forehead, yet that was exactly what he did. In response, Martin gasped, and then sighed.

“I love you,” Martin breathed. “You don’t have to be human for that. Just be Jonathan.”

Then, the warmth of Martin’s skin still buzzing on Jon’s lips, he whispered aloud:

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
